The Mark of Fear
by NightLark
Summary: Moriarty returns with a brand new game for Sherlock and a brand new player.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is a rewrite of a previous story i did called 'The Greatest Game: A study in Fear'. I recently got re-inspired. If people like it, i'll continue!**

 **Takes place after the pool incident in season one/two but before the first encounter with Irene Adler.  
**

* * *

A small crack of light came from under the door, illuminating the bed. The girl lay there, watching the shadows move behind the door. There was a creak of the floorboards and someone moved in front of the door, blocking the small shaft of light. Quiet voices came from the other side, too faint to make out no matter how much she strained her ears.

The girl curled up tighter, pulling the covers up to her chin. She closed her eyes tight, listening intently as the door opened. Soft feet padded over to the bed and she heard the faint sound of breathing. She dared not move, give any indication that she was still awake.

A hand, long elegant fingers, brushed against her cheek, gently moving a strand of hair from her face. She suppressed a flinch at his touch, keeping her eyes screwed shut although she knew better than to think she was fooling him. Under the covers, her hand dug into the mattress, trying to draw comfort from the contact. She thought she heard a faint sigh and the hand pulled away.

After a minute, the footsteps retreated and the door was closed.

* * *

 _Fear is pain arising from the anticipation of evil_. – Aristotle

* * *

The flat was dark, a single shaft of moonlight shining through the window. The only sound came from the clock, steadily ticking. John padded out of his bedroom and across the darkened living room towards the kitchen. As he set about making himself a drink, a soft voice came from the shadows.

"Couldn't sleep?" John spun around sharply, hand flying out to grab a knife from the draining board. His eyes scanned the flat, searching for any sign of a threat, and landed on a figure almost completed camouflaged against the sofa. A car drove past and the shifting moonlight illuminated a patch of pale skin and a defined cheekbone.

"Jesus, Sherlock! You scared the hell out of me! Why are you lurking out here?" He flicked on the living room light. Sherlock screwed his eyes shut against the evasive light and let out a long groan until John turned it off.

"Thank you…"

"Now, why are you out here?" John put his water down and lent against the wall, arms folded. He was exhausted and hoped he could deal with this quickly before he fell asleep on his feet.

"It doesn't feel right..."

"What doesn't?"

"Everything!" John groaned. Clearly this wasn't going to be as easy as he'd hoped.

"Sherlock, it's three in the morning. Can we put your existential crisis on hold until the sun is up at least?"

Sherlock jerked upright and John suppressed another groan, wishing he'd just gone back to bed.

"Moriarty, John. No one's heard anything since that night at the pool. Why?"

"You mean the night he kidnapped me, strapped a bomb to me and tried to kill us both? I don't know why and honestly I don't care, I'd rather been enjoying the peace!"

It had been almost two months since the night at the pool. There had been crimes and cases but nothing that screamed Moriarty. With each case that they solved with no sign of him, Sherlock grew more and more frustrated.

"But it doesn't make sense John! He's a showman, he should be trying to top himself not skulk in the shadows. Why is it taking so long?"

"Maybe he's on holiday? Maybe he went to buy more suits? I don't know Sherlock but let's just enjoy the peace and be thankful for it before he decides to call you up with another bomb threat."

John turned to go to his room. He managed a step before the phone rang. For a second a paranoid fear that Moriarty might indeed be on the other end gripped him. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Sherlock grabbed the phone.

"If that's Moriarty, tell him…" John struggled to come up with a decent threat. "Tell him to go stuff himself…" John muttered before heading to bed. He collapsed onto his bed and pulled the covers over his head. He could hear Sherlock talking in the other room and then silence. He let out a sigh of relief and began to drift off.

"John!" His covers were jerked back and he opened his eyes to see Sherlock's face inches from his own. "Get up!"

"What? What's going on?"

"That was Lestrade. He's got a case for us."

"Right now? What do you people have against sleep?" He pulled the covers back up.

"Get up!" Sherlock yelled and dragged the covers off again before walking out of the room. John reluctantly got up and pulled on some clothes before heading out. Sherlock was already dressed and on his way down the stairs. John hurried to catch up.

"So what's this case?"

"I don't know."

"What? What do you mean you don't know?"

"It means that I don't know."

"How can you not know?"

"Lestrade didn't go into details, just said we needed to get down to the docks right away."

"And that was enough to wake me up and drag me out in the middle of the night?"

"You weren't asleep."

They reached the street and hailed a cab. Sherlock was running through potential cases, getting steadily more excited with each possibility, as John sat in silence wishing he'd invested in a lock for his bedroom door.

They drove to the docks where police tape had been set up around a shipping container. Lestrade was waiting for them.

"Evening gentlemen."

"Don't you mean morning?" grumbled John.

"Sorry John, but this couldn't wait." Lestrade lifted the police tape and they stepped under. He led them over to the container and handed them gloves. "We got an anonymous call about screams coming from the shipping yard, we sent someone over to investigate and they found the container, doors open and a body inside."

"I'm waiting to see what part of this couldn't wait," said John.

"And I'm waiting to see what part of this required my involvement," snapped Sherlock, losing interest already. Lestrade rolled his eyes and gestured for them to enter. They stepped inside the container. Two small spotlights had been set up, shining at the wall furthest from the entrance. A figure was displayed there, arms raised above their head. It was a woman. She'd been stripped naked, bruises were dotted around her body and there was dried blood on her left ankle. Her head hung down, long dirty blonde hair covering her face. But it wasn't the body that drew the attention of the men. It was the wall behind her.

Scratched into the walls were two words. John looked around and saw that they were repeated on the other walls, over and over again. Sherlock Holmes.

"Ahh… now I see why you called," Sherlock said, admiring the walls. John went over to the body and cast his eye over it.

"She wrote this. Look at her fingers. They're bloody, her nails are worn down. She clawed these into the walls."

"Not all of them. The one behind her head. It's larger, the marks are clearer. Done with a tool, not by hand. Probably after she died and was put up there." He turned to look at Lestrade. "Has a cause of death been determined?"

"The coroner's not had a look yet. When your name appears in giant scratched letters on the walls we tend to postpone normal procedures."

"Fine. John, ideas?"

"Well the reports of screaming and the bruises would initially indicate that she was beaten, but they're starting to heal so they're not recent. Judging by her level of malnutrition I'd guess that she starved to death."

"Well done John." John blinked and looked at Sherlock, waiting expectantly. Sherlock looked back and raised an eyebrow.

"That's it? No remark about how I got everything wrong?"

"No, you did very well." John looked at him, waiting for the inevitable 'except'. "The marks on her ankles, they were caused by rope. She was tied by the ankle for most of her stay, not by her arms. She was only strung up after she died. The room was cleaned, heavily by the smell of disinfectant. Whoever did this wanted my attention but not to be identified just yet. There's a piece of china in the furthest corner, looks like a broken plate, most likely thrown against the wall. Whoever was holding her here made an effort to feed her but she didn't want to cooperate, indicating she was held for a prolonged period of time, long enough to move on from fear and become angry at her captor. Her clothes are gone but there's no bruising on her legs, no visible signs of sexual assault. Her captor either wanted to dehumanize her by taking them or thought they would be of use to us and wanted to prevent that. Probably both. There's a faded burn mark on her ankle but a faint spot of colour not quite covered up, a tattoo that could be used to identify her if it were still visible."

"Right… but why would someone want your attention and then not let you know anything?" Lestrade asked, frowning.

"To make it more interesting."

John, who'd largely been ignoring Sherlock's monologue, had moved closer to the body and gently lifted her head to inspect her neck for signs of bruising. Her hair fell to the side exposing her face. He let out a yell and recoiled at the sight. The girl's eyes had been cut out, her lips cut into a twisted smile.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, touching John's arm.

"Yeah, just surprised me…"

"Well it appears our killer has a taste for the macabre." Sherlock approached the body, eyeing the damage with cool disinterest. "Come along Watson, let's go."

"You're leaving?" Lestrade seemed surprised. John frowned. He thought that Sherlock would want to inspect the container a little longer but then again, he'd probably gained all the information he could within seconds of entering the crime scene.

"Yes. There's nothing more we can do here. Tell me when the coroner's results come in." Sherlock swept out of the container and John followed, trying not to look back at the girl's mangled body.

As they reached the street, Sherlock fished his phone from his pocket and began typing.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting a list of missing persons." He was using that voice that implied it was obvious

"Why?"

"Because John, this killer removed all discernible marks, anything that could be used to identify them. Eyes, tattoos, clothing. What goes into a missing person's report? Hair colour, eye colour, tattoos, birth marks and clothing that they were last seen wearing."

"So you think that the girl was listed as a missing person?"

"Yes."

"And all that we know is that she had some form of tattoo on her leg and that she's blonde?"

"No. We know that she had some form of tattoo on her leg and that she had dark hair."

"How…?" He hated asking, knowing that he'd only feel stupid when he heard the answer, but his curiosity was too insistent to keep at bay.

"Her roots, John. They were starting to go dark. Her hair was dyed." He sounded almost bored with the whole thing. John had hoped the excitement of a new case would last just a little bit longer.

"That's not much to go on." Sherlock looked up from his phone for the first time and gave a smile that made John shift uncomfortably

"Of course not John, that's why it's a challenge. If it was easy, it wouldn't be worth my time." He pocketed his phone and waved at a taxi driving by. It pulled over and Sherlock paused before getting in. "You get the next one, I'll meet you back at the flat." Before John could protest, Sherlock had disappeared in the taxi around the corner. He sighed and checked his pockets. No money, of course not.

He sighed again and started walking, heading back to Baker street.


	2. Chapter 2

She sat on the edge of the bed as he gently brushed her hair, staying perfectly still. He paused and toyed with a strand, twirling it between his fingers. She bit her lip, trembling slightly. He smiled to himself and resumed brushing.

When he finished, he set down the brush and fished a ribbon from his pocket, tying it in her hair in a perfect bow.

"Stand up, let me look at you," he told her. She got to her feet and turned to face him, eyes downcast. "Almost perfect." He put a finger and lifted her chin. "Smile sweetheart."

She looked at him and then looked away again, biting her lip. His hand on her arm tightened, fingers digging into her skin. She looked up, meeting his eyes and forced herself not to wince

"I said…" he paused, taking a moment to regain his composure. "Smile."

She whimpered softly and managed a strained smile, forcing herself to maintain it until her cheeks burned. He smiled, satisfied, and released her before getting to his feet.

"Now you're perfect." He brushed past her, putting the hairbrush away. The second his back was turned, she let her smile drop. She heard the door close and she went to the mirror. She looked at her reflection, her hair tied back neatly and her dress perfectly pressed. She opened her mouth and screamed silently at herself.

She heard the footsteps coming back. She stopped, the smile sliding back into place as he entered the room once again.

* * *

 _Love is what we were born with. Fear is what we learned here._ – Marianna Williamson

* * *

Sherlock was sitting in his armchair when John came back, soaked and shivering. He was reading and he didn't even lift his head to acknowledge John's entry.

"You're wet."

"Yes, Sherlock. It's raining. You left me on the street and I didn't have any money so I had to walk. And then it started raining."

"Oh that's good." John rolled his eyes and headed through to his room to put on some dry clothes. There was a stack of papers on his bed and he flicked through them idly. Girls' faces stared up at him. Clearly Sherlock had managed to get hold of the list of missing persons.

John changed and picked up the stack, returning to the living room.

"Why were these on my bed?"

"I thought you could use a little light reading before you went to sleep."

"Ha ha, very funny." He sat in his chair. "How far back do these go?"

"Twenty years. The girl looked to be in her late twenties but she could be older."

"So you don't think that the killer took her then? Or he did take her and he's been holding her all this time?"

"No, I think that she went missing before he found her. He wanted to challenge me, he probably took an old disappearance."

"Makes sense. So you want me to dig out every dark haired girl who fits the right age bracket with a tattoo on her ankle?"

"And without. She might have got the tattoo after she went missing."

"That's… a lot of girls Sherlock."

"Better get started then." John sighed and began to look through the files, sorting them into two piles. Sherlock slumped back in his chair, closing his eyes and tenting his fingers.

"There's a few here that might fit."

"Good. Tell me."

"You want me to read the files out to you?"

"Yes." John gritted his teeth. He was used to Sherlock being 'too busy thinking' to take part in mundane activities but it never got less frustrating.

"Fine. Mary Sutherland. 27 years old went missing four years ago. Natural brunette, blue eyes, tattoo on her ankle of a heart."

"No."

"How can you possibly know that? You didn't even look at the picture." Sherlock opened one eye, looked at the picture and closed it again.

"No."

"Alice Turner, 29, missing two years –"

"No. Not old enough."

"Helen Stoner, 26, missing five years."

"No."

"Hatty Doran, 28, missing four years."

"No…"

"Violet Hunter, 27, missing five years."

"No! John! Be serious here! This person is presenting a challenge, it's got to be more interesting than that."

"Look, if I'm not doing it right than you can do it." The lack of sleep and Sherlock being… Sherlock, was beginning to grate his nerves. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked over at him for a minute before settling down again.

"Next?" John sighed and shifted through the papers until he found one he didn't think Sherlock would sneer at.

"Laura Lyons. 28, went missing fifteen years ago. Better?"

"Much. Go on."

"She has mid brown hair, green eyes. She had a scar on one ankle, she may have had it covered up with a tattoo, and another on her hip. Presumed to be a runaway." Sherlock's eyes snapped open.

"Scar?"

"Yes. On her hip." Sherlock mentally ran through his recollection of the woman from the container.

"Bingo." He reached over and took her file, examining the picture. "Yes, this looks like her. Out of date obviously but same basic bone structure, facial shape. Hair looks the right shade. I think this is a girl." He leaned forward, resting his chin on his knuckles.

"You don't seem pleased…?"

"It's too easy, there's got to be more to it than that."

"Sherlock I think you're looking for a challenge where none exists. Maybe this killer just wanted to show off and overestimated his abilities? Whatever the case, we found the right girl, I am going to bed." John left the room. Sherlock frowned but put his partner's irritation out of his mind. John was always getting grumpy about one thing or another, if he constantly tried to decipher his mood he would never get anything done.

Instead he found his phone and called Lestrade. He knew there had to be more to this girl, otherwise he wouldn't have been directed to her.

"Lestrade. I need the missing person report of a Laura Lyons."

"Why?"

"She's the girl from the container."

"Right… and when were you going to tell me this?"

"I… just did?" Sherlock couldn't understand why Lestrade was wasting his time on trivialities. It was far more important that he get what he needed to find out what was going on here.

Lestrade sighed.

"What was the name again?"

"Laura Lyons. She went missing when she was thirteen. I need that report."

"Fine. I'll get it sent over." Sherlock hung up without bothering to say goodbye. Now he had to wait. He wanted to get on with it, find out what kind of game was being played with him and who was playing it. His first thought was Moriarty. He liked games but then again, he also enjoyed the attention and the admiration. He would have signed his name in big letters for all to see.

He got to his feet and picked up his violin, plucking at the strings absently. He began fiddling with the bow, trying to construct his thoughts into something coherent. If not Moriarty then who? Who would want to entice him into a game?

Well… someone else who had got bored presumably.

* * *

Sherlock was beginning to go insane with boredom and impatience when the doorbell finally rang.

"John, get that will you!" He called. There was no movement from the bedroom. Sherlock frowned and headed down the stairs. A young officer was at the front door with a folder. He wasn't one Sherlock recognized which didn't mean much, only that he'd not found his presence irritating enough to recall.

"Lestrade sent me to deliver –"

"Yes, yes, thank you!" Sherlock slammed the door in his face and ran back up the stairs. He was positive that whatever was in the missing person report would be the next clue, the next step in the game.

He hesitated outside of John's room but he had a feeling that he wouldn't be welcomed by his flatmate with the news. He decided that he would wait to see what the folder contained before getting John up. If it didn't have anything of use, he'd need to interview the family. John would be helpful in that aspect, he was good at the human touch.

He got comfortable on the sofa and opened the file. It wasn't particularly thick, just four pages. The first, personal details about the girl, the second contained a transcript of an interview with the mother and the third contained the notes on the case. The fourth page was paper clipped to the file, seemingly a later addition.

He scanned the first page with little interest. It was just a rewrite of what he already knew with a few additional details. She was thirteen when she went missing. She had green eyes and mid brown hair. She had lived with her mother and stepfather. He discarded it and turned to the second. The interview with the mother had taken place almost a week after the girl was last seen. The mother had waited days to report her missing.

He read through the interview. He frowned, massaging his temples. There had to be more to it than a simple disagreement. The interview didn't even say why they had fought.

Why.

Why…

That was it. The clue was in the why. It had to be.

He flicked through the notes to the fourth page, the one that seemed out of place. It was a doctor report, dated two weeks before her disappearance. It detailed trauma based injuries, the cause listed as a fall down the stairs. Underneath that was the result of a blood test, with a note circled.

Pregnant.

That was it! This had to be!

But to find out for certain he needed more data. He checked his watch. John had been asleep for four and a half hours. That was plenty.

He headed to John's bedroom and knocked hard on the door.

"John."

He heard the faintest groan from inside the bedroom.

"John!"

When John didn't appear at the door he shrugged and entered the room. Common courtesy would have to wait, this was important.

"John, get up! I need you!"

"Keep your voice down…" John muttered from under the covers. "Don't want to give Mrs Hudson more to gossip about."

He sat up in bed.

"What is it?"

"John get dressed, I've figured it out. We're looking for the daughter!"

"The daughter…? I don't follow"

"Laura Lyons. She was pregnant when she went missing."

"That was fifteen years ago Sherlock. That child could be anywhere. She might not even have had it!"

"She had a row with her mother the night she disappeared. My guess, she told the mother she was pregnant and they fought about it. If the fight was that bad, she probably wanted to keep the child and her mother didn't. She's unlikely to have given it up after that."

"People change Sherlock. A teenager on the streets with a baby? Any number of things could have happened."

"Well… only one way to know." John sighed.

"You're not going to leave until I agree to go looking for this child are you?"

"That's correct."

"Fine. Where do we start?"


End file.
